On Saturday, September 29, 2007, my sister died of a heroin overdose. The next day, September 30th, not really knowing what else to do, I went to the coffee shop to work on a group project with some of my friends. I was in a complete daze. I saw Dr. Greene in line, and he saw me. I can't imagine what I looked like. He asked me what was going on, and I think I just blurted out, "My sister died yesterday." His response will never leave me. He said, "Oh my God, Rebecca, I'm so sorry. What can I do?" and he looked me in the eye. He never looked away. Never wished he could get out of the situation. Didn't shuffle his feet to make a move away, as if he'd really like to listen but he'd really like to have his coffee, too. No. He stood there, in that moment in time, with me. I can't remember what else he said, and I can't remember if we ever talked about my sister again. But he held that space for me on that Sunday afternoon 14 years ago when I didn't know what else to do. From the moment I stepped into his class, I never stopped being his student, someone for him to watch over. He always noticed me and asked how I was. He offered me a packet of Korean tea (from a recent research trip he'd taken) when I walked by his office one time and complained of a sore throat. He always asked if I had time to sit down and chat. He always held space and made it seem like he had the time, even though I'm sure he didn't actually have the time at all. I've always thought that part of being a teacher is giving oneself, one's time, to others. Dr. Greene gave so much. I'm honored to have been his student, to have learned from him, and I hope I can do for my own students what he did for me and so many others. You are so missed. Dr. Greene. Thank you for everything. 

~ Rebecca Chatham-Vazquez